Losing Dad - but not hope(?)

 

   When I was in meeting on the Sunday before the election, I said that, no matter the outcome, life would go on, that the light would overcome the darkness and, to quote Julian of Norwich, all shall be well.

   “Easy for you to say!”   

   It’s all too easy to have hope, to have faith when you think things will go one way, the right way, the way they should. It was easy to say all shall be well, to have faith, when it seemed possible, if not a sure thing, that Kamala Harris would win.  All I can say now that Donald Trump has been elected (decisively, more than the first time) is that it is time to work that muscle, that faith muscle. As Julian of Norwich no doubt knew living in a time of plague and war, faith is indeed a muscle that has to be worked, that has to be exercised.    

   We are in for a lot of work – or a lot of working out.

   Meanwhile, as Trump’s foreboding appointees and nominations are coming in fast and furious, I’m glad that my dad didn’t live to see to see Trump win the presidency for the second time.  According to my sister, my dad “was living his best life,” hiking and “cooking up a storm” with his similarly widowed wife on the Northern California coast just a few days before he died on September 23 at the age of 96. I imagine that the reasonable expectation that Harris had a decent chance of winning was a small part of this.  Likewise, I’ve been grateful that my mom didn’t see Trump win the first time; she died in July in 2016 before the November election. 

   In some ways, as I reflected in my recent Claremont Courier which follows, my father was a remarkable man, and, as difficult as growing up with a remarkable father sometimes was, it is why my life has been remarkable. 

            LIVING IN CLAREMONT, AND THE WORLD, WITH DAD

  Some years ago, I went to Pitzer College’s commencement ceremony to hear the speaker: Angela Davis, the fiery, militant Black Panther-turned respected if not universally admired philosophy professor.  She was lately known at the time for speaking out against the “prison-industrial complex.” Early in her address to the graduates, she mentioned having briefly taught here at the colleges a number of years ago. 

   I wonder if my dad met her – or perhaps hired her. 

   I’ve been thinking about this and other things, things I wished I’d asked my dad about, since my dad died on September 23 at the age of 96. Although I had been secretly rooting for him to make it to 100, he lived a remarkably long and, as I was reminded in going over stuff for his obituary, rich life, some 40 years of it in Claremont. 

   For example, I was reminded that several years after moving here with my mom and older sister from San Francisco in the early 60’s when I was 2 to join the math department at then-new Harvey Mudd College, he chaired a committee charged with finding ways to increase diversity at all the colleges here.  This was a time of much unrest – Vietnam, civil rights – and I have vague memories of him talking to my mom, sometimes quite heatedly, about something called “Black studies.”

   Did he meet Ms.  Davis, have a hand in having her come to teach? 

   I knew Dad biked to work and swam every day, rain or shine, in the college pool. I knew this, but there was plenty of other stuff about his work that I, and all the rest of us, didn’t know about or at least understand.  Him being the chair of the all-college diversity committee – or why he, a math professor, was in this position – wasn’t that much of a mystery in comparison. 

   It was like my dad had another, secret life.  His field of study was a very high level of algebra, far above the Algebra II that I struggled through in high school to get a grade adequate to get into the University of California.  In this rarefied math world, my dad was something of a rock star. After his death, we received e-mails from mathematicians and former students from all over the world offering condolences and singing his praises. 

   He was also something of a diplomat.  Some of the mathematicians he worked with were in Hungary and Poland, in the shadow of the then-Soviet Union, and he somehow arranged to have them visit the U.S, including Claremont.  A few stayed in our house, which made for some weird dinnertime conversations. 

   This work gave the family some extraordinary benefits.  In addition to extended stays in Vancouver, Canada and Berkeley, we lived in Ferrara, Italy for eight months and in London for a year in the 70’s.  My dad and mom pushed me in my wheelchair and sometimes carried me around in European cities, English villages, countless museums, castles and country homes.  It gave me a taste for good food and made me appreciate Little Bridges and the Scripps College campus all the more. 

   But in other ways, Dad was just a dad.  We went swimming at Scripps and Harvey Mudd and went Christmas caroling with other Claremont colleges faculty families.  We went camping and took trips up the coast. 

  He was quite a handyman and enjoyed designing and making things to make my life easier, like a board with a typewriter keyboard painted with nail polish (pink) that I could use when my speech was difficult to understand and a small staircase with three carpeted steps so that I could literally climb into bed.  Later, he introduced me to personal computers and e-mail when they first came out, with the idea that they would make work and communication easier for me. 

   Dad could be difficult. He was demanding, precise. In most if not all situations, there was only one right answer.  He was, after all, a mathematician. Having him help me with math homework was often more of a challenge (“It’s obvious!” It wasn’t), and, later, we got into heated discussions about my decisions. 

   But, also with his mathematician’s eye, he appreciated beauty and encouraged me to enjoy nature, to enjoy the performing arts, to enjoy literature.  When I left for college, he told me to explore and have fun.  My dad taught me discipline and determination, and, as hard as these lessons sometimes were, they are why my life has been, despite all its physical challenges, so full, so productive, so rich. I am very grateful for this. 

Keep flying those flags!

 

   Don’t put away those rainbow flags.  Buy more and fly them!  Wear more of your tye-dye and your bright colors and your black punk get-ups. 

   Keep your freak flag flying! 

   A part of me thinks that, if I was able to, I would move to London after it was determined that Donald Trump won the presidency early this morning.  But now is not the time to throw up our hands and give up.  Now is not the time to go into hiding, to go away.  That’s what they – Trump and his minions – want. 

   We can’t give them that victory!  We have to be out there, more out there.  We are still here, even if we’re not going forward (yet).

   Yes, I’m sad, really sad, that Trump won and Kamala Harris, a Black woman, won’t be president, but I have to say that, unlike in 2016, I’m not really surprised.  The only thing that surprises (and also embarrasses and shames) me is that the result came this quickly.

   After Harris became the Democratic candidate in July, she really rode high for a good while, through the convention in August and into early September.  She then stalled, and I worried that Trump was gaining.  Then, during the last couple weeks of the campaign, Trump seemed to be going off the rails and flailing, and I had hope that sanity and Harris would prevail. 

   But something kept telling me she wasn’t all that.  Harris was great at giving speeches, at rallies.  She soared.  But when she was interviewed, she seemed shy, wasn’t direct and forthright, wasn’t confident.  Perhaps she didn’t want to be a pushy woman, a pushy, black woman. 

   There is no doubt more involved, but perhaps America just wasn’t ready for a black woman president.  I was, and, whether it’s ready or not, I’m still here.   

Winning on the ballot

 

   No matter who wins on (or after) Tuesday, I have won a big victory in this election. 

   The other day, for the first time, I voted by myself, on my own.  For the first time, after voting for about 45 years, I marked my own ballot. 

   This may sound like nothing, no big deal, but it’s huge. 

   Like I said, I have be voting in dozens of elections over decades, ever since my mom took me to the poll for the first time after I turned 18, when the poll worker, an old man who was presumably a Republican, glowered at my mom, a Democrat, no doubt thinking she was voting twice.  A few years later, I became a permanent absentee voter, which meant I could vote at home, but I always needed to tell my attendant how to mark my ballot.  This wasn’t exactly private, anonymous, especially when the ballot switched from being a punch card to an actual list of candidates and propositions. 

   Then, a couple months ago, I went to a talk at Claremont McKenna College by Dean Logan, the Registrar of Voters in Los Angeles County.  He spoke about all the work his office does – it’s a lot! – and mentioned that he has made a special effort to make voting accessible to the disabled, especially after meeting with a group of severely disabled voters at United Cerebral Palsy in L.A.  I was impressed that he made such an effort to listen and that he wanted to make sure everyone can mark their own ballot no matter their physical limitations.  I was particularly interested when he said there was a way to vote on one’s computer at home using one’s own adaptive equipment, as I’m now unable to touch a keyboard or a screen, and my speech is impaired, making speech recognition practically impossible. 

   A while later, I e-mailed the registrar’s office explaining my situation and promptly got a response directing me to a web page.  Lo and behold, when I tried it out a few days ago, I found myself marking my ballot on my computer. 

   Note, that’s on my computer, not online. One thing I really liked about the process was that, after completing voting, I printed the ballot, and it was put into the absentee voter return envelope.  This way, there’s no question or fear mongering about votes being in the ether, hacking, etc.  I guess my attendant could look and see who and what I voted for but hopefully not if I keep my eye on them. 

   Wow!  Who knew?  It’s like that old line – where have you been all my life?    

A five-alarm (at least) warning

 

   The other evening, I went to Scripps College to hear a conversation with Van Jones, perhaps now best-known as an commentator on CNN. Jones, a Black man, has worked in the past several presidential administrations and runs an organization that places disadvantaged young people, including the formerly incarcerated, into green jobs. I was looking forward to hearing good things about Kamala Harris becoming the first female president, the first Black woman president and the first president with an Indian background. 

   I was disappointed, sorely disappointed.

   When asked what Harris’ chances of winning the race were, Jones said that they are slipping away.  At this point, Trump seems to be on a “glide path to victory.”

   Oof!  This wasn’t what we wanted to hear. 

   Jones explained that we “aren’t working” for a Harris victory.  He declared that he loves and admires Harris and thinks that Trump shouldn’t win.  However, as he pointed out, unlike when Obama ran, people aren’t “calling in sick to take a week off to fly to Georgia or Pennsylvania to knock on doors” for Harris.  People aren’t manning the phone banks, all hands on deck.  Instead, not unlike what happened when Hilary Clinton ran against Trump in 2016 (and when, early on, Jones predicted that Trump would win), people “are tweeting each other about how happy they are that Harris instead of Biden is running.” People aren’t working for a Harris win. 

   When asked about Black men who a leaning toward Trump or thinking of not voting, Jones said that they are not being listened to and are being taken for granted by Democrats, that we aren’t knocking on their doors.  He said Black men question why they should care who wins when they haven’t gotten anything that was promised them (no voting rights law, no police reform, etc.) and pointed out that Trump funded Black colleges and released more prisoners than other recent presidents. 

   In answering a question from the audience about those protesting  America’s role in Israel’s war on Gaza, Jones asked, “Who do they think they are?” He questioned if these students and others really know what best, when they think it’s better, worth it, to send a message and let Trump, who is Netanyahu’s buddy and doesn’t give a damn about the Gazans and might let their land become Israel’s “beachfront property,” win – while Harris consistently says that what Israel is doing in Gaza is wrong and there needs to “be an immediate ceasefire.”

   These were tough words, and Jones knew it.  He said that he meant to scare us – scare us into action.  He said that this was the huddle in the fourth quarter when we are down by a goal. We are almost there but not quite – and that doesn’t count.  He said we aren’t acting like we might well have a dictatorship. 

   I have to say that while I was bummed out by what Jones had to say, I wasn’t exactly surprised.  After the initial flurry of excitement in the weeks after Harris became the nominee and at the convention, I’ve noticed that the excitement has lagged, if not fizzled out. 

   I can’t go to Pennsylvania or Detroit to knock on doors for Harris.  Writing this is the least I can do.  

When I see a guy

 

   Sometimes, like when a male student from the colleges shows up at Quaker meeting, and I can’t keep my eyes off him during worship, I wonder why I’m gay.  Why am I attracted, so very attracted, to men?  What was it that got me to get turned on when I see certain guys? 

   It’s not really about or only about dick. It’s not like, when I see a guy, all I see, or imagine, is his dick.  I can’t deny that it’s there, that it’s a factor, a big factor, but there is so much more to admire and love about the male body, the male physique.  I can get aroused when I see a guy’s back, a guy’s smooth, tanned shoulder blades.  I know they are a guy’s, even when they’re all I see, and I get excited. 

   I remember when Harvey Milk was murdered, and when thousands of gay men and lesbians rioted and marched, especially when his killer got off with a lighter sentence.  I was a young teenager, and it was decades before I came out, but I felt like I could relate to their rage and sadness, to their being made outsiders – no doubt because I was an outsider, shunned and made fun of, because of my disability and impaired speech. 

   Fine, but this doesn’t explain my same-sex love.  It is, perhaps, an important backdrop to what came later. 

   Sometime in my teens, I was made aware that I tended to avoid looking at myself in the mirror.  Was this true?  Did I not like seeing myself?  Was I repulsed by what I saw?  I didn’t know. As far as I know, I hadn’t thought about it.  Being so advised, I made an effort, a real, conscious effort, to look at myself in the mirror.  At first, it was an exercise, a chore.  After a while, though, perhaps like Narcissus looking into the pond, I began to like what I saw.  Indeed, soon enough, I admired and loved my crippled, spastic body. 

   Around this time, I discovered masturbation and was exploring ways that I could, with my limited physical ability, masturbate and enjoy and have fun with my dick and my body. I discovered that wearing overalls helped in this process – and it was a process.

   I soon found that I liked seeing myself doing this. Seeing myself having fun with myself in the mirror was even more fun. Whether or not I would have said so at the time, it was hot, my body was hot, and turned me on.

   Soon enough, I was thinking and wondering about other guy’s bodies, and I began looking at other guy’s bodies and enjoying it.  For many years, I couldn’t say I was turned on by them – I would tell myself that their clothes or hair were cool or something.  At the same time, I kept relating, and strangely feeling comforted by, all those gay guys protesting and marching for justice for Harvey Milk and later for their lives during the AIDS crisis and then against discrimination and unjust legislation and for the freedom to love and marry who they wanted.  When I finally came out, finally admitted that I was one of them, at age 39, it was a huge release, a great liberation. 

   There are probably other factors, like the fact that I liked writing poetry and going window shopping with my mom when I was a kid.  Then again, my brother didn’t really like playing sports and played French horn when he was growing up, and he didn’t turn out gay.  Those who are into Freud might say that I’m stuck in some childish phase, infatuated with myself. If I had not been disabled and if I had not been encouraged to not avoid looking at myself in the mirror, would I be straight?  I have no idea.  All I know is I love it that I love my crazy, twisted body, and I love it even more that I love guys.